


Sunday Summer Brunch (A Beautiful Thing)

by LinearA



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Brunch, F/M, Fluff, Fuck Finance Bros, Limited NYC in-jokes I swear, Mildly Combative Attitudes Towards Sex, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Rey gets more literal about it, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinearA/pseuds/LinearA
Summary: Rey's friends are late for brunch.  Ben's two people short of a party of three.  It's not their fault the trains are fucked, but the only seats they can get are at the bar, and the bartender is pouring his specialty.(Originally written on Twitter, for the prompt: "[Ben and Rey] bond over mutual rage at the seating policies at the trendy brunch place their respective friends are already 25 minutes late for.")
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 88
Kudos: 661





	Sunday Summer Brunch (A Beautiful Thing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bless_my_circuits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bless_my_circuits/gifts).



> So this was originally a Twitter fic, and honestly it may be better read that way. The original prompt is [here,](https://twitter.com/blessmycircuits/status/1167868668497125377) but since I broke the thread a few times it may be easier to skip to [the end](https://twitter.com/LinearAO3/status/1167970681088139265) and scroll up to the top. (The _very_ top is me whining about my own mistakes; please be kind and ignore it.) But at some point I promised to put it on AO3, so here we are.

“It’s not fair,” Rey says. “That was a party of six, missing two, and THEY got to sit. I’m a party of three, missing two, why can’t _I_ sit?”

“They know me!” Ben says. “They know I’m here every Saturday, same group! It’s not my fault the fucking F is fucking fucked!”

“Is that what it is?” Rey asks. “I thought maybe my friends had — I mean, they wouldn’t. They promised. But they weren’t returning my texts, so I was just getting — “

“We have seats available at the bar while you wait,” the hostess says. 

“Yes, great, we’ll take them, thanks so much,” says Ben, snarling. Rey looks at him, like, _who’s this we?_ But he’s herding her to the bar, and what? But fine. She’s just relieved it’s the trains. Not that she thinks Finn and Poe would stand her up! They wouldn’t! Of course they wouldn’t. Just, things might have happened. You never know. Rose said she couldn’t come and maybe Finn decided he’d rather stay with Rose and maybe Poe decided it wasn’t worth leaving Brooklyn if Finn wasn’t going to be there. The village is a long way from Park Slope. It’s a long fucking way from Washington Heights, too. But it’s only one train for Rey so she can’t complain.

The bartender sets a drink down in front of her. “I didn’t order this!” Though she sort of wishes she had. It’s bright and there’s a flower in it and it smells amazing. 

“Drink it,” the guy from the front, Ben, says. “House special. We deserve it.”

Rey tries a sip, just a little sip, and moans. “This is fucking delicious." The bartender puffs up a little. 

“Yeah, it’s a decoction of — “

“It’s passionfruit and basil,” Ben says. “Some balsamic something or other.” The bartender turns away, looking wounded. “My friend says it’s the fucking hit of the summer.”

Rey takes a long drink, way longer than she means to. Her eyes close. She’s right under the air conditioner here, and it was warm enough by the door that that’s a fucking pleasure. She can feel the loose material of her top fluttering around her arms and across her chest.

“Hit with you?” Ben asks. He sounds kind of wistful. He’s barely touched his.

“Fuck yes,” Rey says. “Fucking delicious. What’s a passionfruit look like, anyway? Are they orange? Why aren’t you drinking yours?”

(She shouldn’t have asked that; that was tactless. Maybe he’s spent his entire drink budget on being generous with her and now he needs to make his last. Maybe he’s in recovery and he just wants to smell it. Oh God if he’s in recovery she’s being so awful right now.)

“They’re dark,” Ben says. “Dark red. Almost purple. You cut them in half, and the good stuff’s inside. The pulp. You pry it up with a spoon and pour it into your mouth. Like an oyster.” He takes a drink. “But sweet.”

Rey marvels. “Is that why they’re called passionfruit?” she asks, walking her fingers back and forth over the smooth dark wood of the bar. God this is fucking strong for fruit juice and champagne. “Because they’re like oysters? And people think oysters are like pussy?”

He sputters on the end of his sip. “No,” he says. “No, that’s... not why.” He sets the glass back down very precisely. He has amazing hair. And really nice hands. “It’s the flowers. They look like they’re bleeding in three places. Capital-P Passion, like uh. Jesus.”

“Oh.” Rey looks down at her drink. “That’s. Ow.”

“‘Ow?’ I’m sorry, are you saying ‘ow’ for Jesus?”

“I mean it hurt!” Rey exclaims, giving him a little push on the arm that doesn’t move him an inch. “I’m sorry if you’re religious; I didn’t mean to be disrespectful!”

“Didn’t mean to bring you down if you were enjoying your drink,” he says, and looks at her with dark eyes. Precision sight isn’t really her thing right now but she’s pretty sure he looks her up and down. Maybe lingers on her mouth as she licks sweet alcohol from her lip. She’s not a coward and he started it so she checks him out back, so flagrantly she laughs at herself as she licks her lip again.

“You’re taking your time with your drink,” she says, turning back to hers. If he doesn’t want to answer that part of her question, he can just agree that he is. But he *is* drinking it.

“It’s good,” he says. “Just taking my time.” She looks over at him; he’s just looking away. “Really, I just hate admitting my friend was on to something,” he adds. “He’s kind of an asshole and I hate how much he’s right. Motherfucker always picks the hot stocks.”

“Oh shit, you’re a *finance bro?*”

“Uh, I guess?” He contorts his face. Probably she’s insulted him. But he’s a finance bro. Who cares if he’s insulted. Not her. 

“Shit.” She takes another sip of her drink. She wants to polish it off but she probably can’t afford a second one. And she’ll want one.

That’s the worst thing about rich people and their excesses. Their nice shit is GOOD. She wants it. Their food tastes good and their clothes are soft, which is why she wants to pet his shirt collar, and he probably has expensive exfoliant to make his lips look like that.

Probably he thinks this place is slumming. Fuck. 

Maybe she should buy another drink. Just to show him she’s not afraid of him. That’s the kind of move finance bros respect, right? Aggressive buying of things?

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” he says weakly.

“You’re probably my landlord.” Which reminds her that her rent is due. Fuck it. She hails the bartender. “I’d like another, please.”

“You know,” the bartender says, looking hopeful, “the thing about decoctions is, it really lets you magnify flavor while maximizing...”

“It’s strong,” Ben interrupts again. Are finance bros allowed to be called Ben and look so soft and solid? There should be a law that they all have to change their names to Tad. “He’s trying to tell you that it’s mostly alcohol.”

“Get another yourself, then,” she says challengingly. “Keep up.”

His soft mouth hardens a little and he looks her dead in the eye as he kills his glass in one swig. “Another,” he says to the bartender without breaking eye contact. Which is rude, but FUCK, his eyes.

She thanks the bartender when he brings her a new one, and smiles at him when he pricks the flower with a pin to make it sit more prettily in the glass. Ben shows the bartender his teeth. “I don’t need the fucking flower,” he says. “The fucking flower does not contribute.”

“See?!?” Rey says. “You don’t even appreciate nice things. It would be one thing if you really, really loved and like, respected nice things, but you don’t even care, do you? That flower is beautiful, but you don’t care; all that matters about it to you is status. Cost.”

The bartender preens, vindicated, but Ben doesn’t move his hand. He just stares at her, wide-eyed, as she stabs her finger at him.

“That’s why you’re wrecking the world. Not so you can have nice things. So you can have nic _er_ things, _more,_ more than the other guys who also have too much! You don’t love luxury, or craftsmanship, or beauty; you’re just in a non-stop dick-measuring contest with the world, and you’re terrified of losing!” 

She stops to gasp for air. The bartender claps, quietly. Rey and Ben both glare at him, and he retreats.

Rey plucks the flower out of her drink and licks off the fizzy drops that adhere to its undersides. Ben stares at her, eyes sliding helplessly between her scowl and her tongue. 

“I,” he says. “I — “

“You what?” she sighs, dropping the flower to the napkin.

His hand closes around her wrist, and he holds her hand to the light. A faint streak of moisture glistens down the side of her index finger, runoff from the flower. He lowers her hand, and lowers his face, too. She feels his mouth on her skin and her head drops back. His lips and tongue trace the lost drop of drink, slowly. He’s not looking at her; his eyes, if they’re anywhere, are on her hand, but she can’t tell because his dark hair falls between his face and her, brushing her skin.

“I do,” he says when he looks up at last, his eyes soft and hot, “I do care about beautiful things.”

Rey swallows. He lets her hand go, and she picks up her drink. “Is there a bathroom here?” she asks the bartender, who looks a little shellshocked. He points, and she rises unsteadily to her feet, holding her glass. Ben’s lip is actually trembling. “Are you coming or not?” she snarls at him, and seizes him by his stupid expensive shirt. It’s purely a miracle that the waitress he collides with as he follows her blindly doesn’t drop her tray of savory rosemary waffles with labne.

It is _so rude_ to monopolize a bathroom but there are two, and she is _so drunk,_ and she can still feel his mouth on her skin. She takes another sip of her drink as she locks the door behind them and feels warm tingle under her skin as he watches her swallow.

He steps between her feet, and she sighs. He doesn’t smell like body spray, or some awful fake leather cologne. He smells like sweat and shea butter cedar soap. He takes the glass from her hand. It feels cool as it slips from her fingers, cooler by comparison to how warm he is. He sets it on the lower shelf of the little table by the sink (rustic, stained wood, fluffy cloth towels; someone on staff must be in charge of laundry) and dips one finger into the flute. A rivulet runs down across his palm as he lifts it towards her, eyes wary and hopeful.

She starts with that rivulet, catching the running drop with her tongue, tracing it back up his life line, across his head line and his heart line, to the base of his finger. His fingers twitch, shake, half-curl as she does it. She gives him what he wants, taking his whole finger between her lips, and he sighs, bracing himself with his other hand against the wall behind her. His finger is thick and heavy, flexing against her tongue, and his strokes lightly at her cheek with his thumb. She wraps an arm around his waist as best she can and pulls him in, then sinks her teeth in a little deeper to hold him in place as she tilts her head and curls her tongue around his finger. The hand behind her head slaps the wall, once, twice, three times. Like a code, she thinks. He’s shaking. Poor baby. Someone should come and save him. Because she’s not going to. She’s not going to have any mercy on him at all. She sucks his finger a little deeper, and then deliberately scraps him with her teeth. He whimpers.

She lets him go with a soft little pop and a smile. He stares at her for four seconds as if she’s shot him, and then he kisses her like there a law against it and he wants to go to jail for life. His hands are everywhere, sliding down her hips, wrapping around her waist, over her shirt, then under it, his thumbs digging under the seam of her bralette. With every part of her he touches he shifts himself, as if he’s found some new information that changes everything.

When he breaks the kiss he’s panting, but he keeps pressing his mouth against her chin, her cheek, her temple, her hair. He pushes her hair back to kiss the spot below her ear where she puts the cheap perfume she buys on the sidewalk outside Target, and stroke it with his nose. Then he stoops and his big fingers cup her ass, squeeze her so deliciously they both hiss, and she’s hoisted into the air. She puts her elbows on his shoulders, and feels his hot breath against her breasts through thin cotton and net bralette.

She rakes her fingers through his hair as she wraps her legs around him, tries to supplement the sweet ache of his hands kneading her ass with the rub of the seam of her jeans, and she feels her top tighten at the back of her neck. He’s sunk his teeth into the fabric, and he tugs at it, hoisting her higher, until the neckline slides below one nipple, which sticks out, dark pink and hard beneath lavender net. His mouth is on it instantly, and she bucks so hard against him that he staggers, clutching her ass as she yanks at his soft dark hair.

He lets her go, gasping again. “See?” he says. “Fucking love beautiful things. Can’t get fucking enough. Take off your fucking shirt.”

She pulls his hair back so hard he has to bend his neck back. She looks down at his naked throat. “Spoiled brat.” But she does it.

His tongue tickles her and soothes her and the mesh of her bralette scratches her. She writhes against him and he moves her weight from hand to hand, like he’s juggling her. Fuck he’s strong. He makes hungry little sounds against her breasts, and then drops her a little.

Not far, just a few inches down his body. Far enough that she can feel how much he likes this. “I’m going to put you down,” he says in her ear. “If I put you down, will you take off your jeans? I want to feel your pussy.” She rolls herself against his cock and he groans. “Please,” he begs through his teeth, nuzzling into her shoulder. “Fuck. Are you wet? Please.”

“I’ll take them off if you’ll eat me out,” she says. 

“I came here to have fucking brunch, didn’t I?”

He puts her down right in front of the little table with the towels, and his hands hover over her hips as she unbuttons her jeans and yanks them down with her underwear. The second they’re past her knees he’s got her again, lifting her onto the table. His hands drag down her thighs; he sinks his thumbs into the hollows of her knees, caresses the back of her calf with his fingers. The tile floor must be hard but he sinks down to his knees without pausing, kissing the bones of her knees. “A towel,” she says, “you could kneel on a towel,” but he ignores her, dividing her with his thumbs like segmented fruit and sniffing her like a glass of port. Then he licks her, hard and long, and she has to struggle not to squeal.

“You are wet,” he says with deep satisfaction, against her sensitive flesh, and it’s her turn to tremble. He ducks his head so that her legs are on his shoulders. He’s not playing; he licks her furiously, desperately, digging his tongue in and lapping. Rey squirms, feeling the muscles of his back against her calves, and rubs her hands helplessly through his soft hair. It’s awful. This rotten man, who can go to the gym all the time and wash his hair with fancy oil, is going to make her come faster than anyone ever has.

She doesn’t want it to be easy; she wants to make him work for it. But. Oh fuck. She’s close. His hair’s so fucking pretty, and she squeezes him with her thighs, and it’s soft against her skin, and he makes a little choking noise that’s hot as August but he doesn’t stop. He’s going to be smug; it’s going to be another dick-measuring contest he’s won, how fast she’s going to fucking come, and she hates it, but she’s going to fucking come so hard and she can’t hide it. Not with the way she’s writhing against his face.

He pulls it out of her, holding her clit tight between his lips and stroking her with his tongue; she has to cover her mouth with both hands as she digs her heels into his back and screams. He just presses his face against her harder, moaning. 

It goes on so long she has to push him away. He goes, but he looks sulky about it. And yes. A little smug. Bastard. Fuck him. 

_That’s a thought._

She’s shaky, and she just came so hard she’s surprised there isn’t a news crew here to report on the seismic activity. But give her a minute. She leans down and kisses him. He takes it like she’s giving him a medal. Fucker. She leans down further and picks up her drink, and takes a meditative sip. He’s staring up at her, and she lifts her legs off him, holding out the glass. “Thirsty?”

“You’re the one who lost all the fluids here.” He licks his lips. “Fucking bartender wishes he could mix this good.”

Oh, he’s the fucking worst. And is she really going to do this? She shouldn’t. He probably has some terrible finance-specific STD. She takes another sip of her drink. It’s so fucking good, and he’s still looking at her. She’s definitely going to do this. 

“Are you still hard?” she asks.

He looks down. “Yes,” he says, and he’s got a deep voice but somehow he manages to squeak a little. He looks embarrassed, but eager, too. Like a puppy who’s heard the leash jingle.

She takes another sip. “Do you want to fuck me?” she asks, in a tone she imagines finance bros use to propose buying new buildings to knock down for $3k/m glass boxes. Like it might be a laugh. 

“Fuck yes,” he says, and kisses her pussy. “I’ll call an Uber.”

“No Ubers, no cabs,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ve seen _American Psycho._ You can fuck me right here.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Sure. Sure. Right away.”

Rey looks around the room. She’s never done it in front of a mirror.

She climbs of the table and shuffles, jeans at her ankles, the two steps to the sink. She leans down low and rests her elbows on the sink. She wants to keep her eyes on this fucker’s face. He sucks in a breath. 

“If you have a condom, wear it. If you don’t, pull out.” 

He’s literally falling over himself to get to her and get his pants open. She notices he doesn’t even check his wallet for a condom. Typical. She’s definitely going to need antibiotics, but then he’s got his cock out and maybe she doesn’t care.

He meets her eyes in the glass. He’s breathing hard. “Tell me if you don’t like it, okay? If you want something else.” 

“I will.” She will. She not gonna let him fuck her badly in a bathroom without complaining about it. She watches him look down at her. She wants to watch him feel her, wants to see what he feels as he fucks her. But when he pushes in, she misses the look on his face because has to close her eyes, whining involuntarily. Oh shit. If he likes dick-measuring contests, she’s ready to give him a ribbon. 

He’s not moving. Her eyes blink open and she’s sees him in the glass, slumped chin to chest, mouth open. His face is still a little shiny with eating her out. He looks wrecked, and it makes her squirm and squeeze. “Ben,” she says softly. He looks up.

“Fucking amazing,” he says, and thrusts once. “Just — Jesus fucking Christ.” He runs his hands over her back, and she thinks for a second she’s going to have to do all the work herself, but then his hands settle on her hips and he yanks her backwards, grunting. The mirror shows her her own open mouth, her breasts bouncing under netting wet from his mouth. When she looks up, that’s where his eyes are too, fixed on her. She can see the muscles in his arms flex as he pulls her hard onto his cock. She’d been afraid he’d only watch himself, living a narcissistic porn star fantasy, but if he stops watching her in the mirror for a minute, it’s to look down at her back or caress her ass as he swears under his breath.

They’re in a fucking restaurant bathroom, but she wants to hear him. “Ben,” she whispers, loud enough for him to hear, “do you want to fuck me harder? I can take it harder.”

“Fuuuck,” he moans, and now he’s almost too loud. His hands drop to the sides of the sink.

He crowds her against it, slamming himself into her. His head is bent over her shoulder; for a moment she can’t see his face at all. Then he raises it, and turns his head. His mouth almost touches her ear but his eyes in the mirror are watching her. “Can you, Rey? Can you take it harder? Can you take it as hard as I want to give it to you?”

It’s taking all her strength to keep from having the wind knocked out of her by the edge of the sink but she nods. “Mmhmm.”

“Can’t give it to you like I want to here,” he grunts.

Where does he want to take her? She imagines a dungeon, black leather accessories, but before she can decide if she hates it or not he says, “Wanna put you in my bed. Wanna fuck you every way from Sunday.” He takes a deep breath. “No mirror. But I want it all to smell like you.”

 _It’s just the jar that says Egyptian Musk,_ Rey wants to say, but Ben thrusts particularly hard, and she only gasps. 

“Pussy’s so fucking sweet I want everything to smell like it,” he says. So not the Egyptian Musk, then. 

“Can you come like this?” he asks, and it’s a valid question. She starts to shift, moving her hips, trying to find an angle so she can, and he sighs, “How the fuck did this fucking happen, huh?”

“You bought me a drink,” Rey gasps, as she finds the angle she needs.

He’s not listening; he’s running his mouth over her neck and shoulder, and she’s jerking and shuddering underneath him. “Fucking do it,” he says. “Fucking come on my cock. I’ll pull out, but let me feel it.” He raises his head in the mirror. “Let me see it.”

They’re both watching her in the mirror now; she’s red and gasping and sweat is making her hair curl. She shuts her eyes, but he pants, “Look at you. Fucking look at you. So fucking beautiful.”

Maybe it’s the praise, or the surprise of the praise, or the way it shocks her eyes open so she stares straight through the mirror to his desperate black eyes; maybe it’s the inevitable end of being licked and fucked. But she does what he asked; she comes again for him.

He’s as good as his word, he pulls out. “Turn over,” he pleads, though she’s still gasping. “Please turn over. Push up your bra.”

She does turn over, but she slides to her knees. The tile floor is hard. She shoves his hand away and slips her mouth over him. He thrusts himself into her mouth, his fingers tangling in her hair, a hoarse shout coming from him in bursts like a hacking cough as he spurts down her throat. It’s thick and bitter and warm going down. 

When she lets him go he slumps, clinging to the table for support. She rescues her drink and takes a dainty sip. “You didn’t— you didn’t have to,” he says, still out of breath. “If you don’t like the taste.”

“The taste is fine.” She waves her hand. “The drink is just good. Your friend is right. And you should admit it.”

She sets down the drink, and pulls up her pants. Gingerly. He’s really done a number on her. God, and her hair— “I could have cleaned you up,” he says. 

“What, with a towel? A human being has to wash those. You have no respect for the working class.” 

“If you come to my place,” he says, “I wash my own towels.”

She stares at him. He bites his lip, looking down to where he’s working on re-buckling his belt. “Do you really?”

“Sometimes.” He meets her eyes, then looks away again. “I know how to.”

He looks good blushing.

Still, she hesitates. He sees it. He swallows hard, and that shouldn’t soften her but it does. “You don’t have to,” he says, looking at his shoes. 

“Maybe — maybe another time? I’m just kind of... sore, right now? I could give you my number.” His head pops up comically.

Rey wants to space their exits but he claims it’s pointless. She thinks he just wants to follow her a little longer. She thinks she feels his hand hovering around her elbow as they move back through the crowd, and she’s about to turn and look when a voice calls out, “Solo!”

“Solo! Where the hell have you been?” It’s an Englishman sitting with a tall woman at a two-person table. “We texted. I assumed you were off having a tantrum somewhere.”

Ben turns dark red. “I was talking to someone. I — had my phone on silent.” As Rey watches, he pauses. With the air of man confessing treason in front of a firing squad, he says, “You were right. The passionfruit liqueur with balsamic basil vodka and champagne is good. It’s a good drink.”

The other man blinks. “Yes. Well. Glad you finally saw reason.”

Ben turns on his heel. When he reaches Rey, he opens his wallet and thumbs out two bills. “Will you pay for our drinks?” he asks, holding them out. They’re both 100s. Rey frowns. “I just.” Ben coughs. “I don’t really think that bartender wants to take my money right now.”

Rey looks up to where the bartender is standing, pointedly not looking at them, shaking a cocktail much too violently. She sees her own mussed hair in the mirror. “Okay.”

The door jingles, and Poe explodes into the restaurant, followed by Finn. “Rey!” Poe shouts. Ben blanches.

“I, uh, I think I’d better be going,” he mutters, and makes his way rapidly through the door. Rey watches him go, and Poe fights his way towards, shouting all the while about the F running on the A line and being trapped in the tunnel under the river.

“I’m so sorry,” Rey says. “I just — I think I accidentally filled up at the bar while I was waiting for you. I’m so sorry.” Both of them are staring at her. She kisses their cheeks. “Bring me leftovers if you get the tomatillo shaksuka, okay?” she asks, and runs out the door.

Ben’s not far down the block, and Rey may not be rich, but she, too, can appreciate a beautiful thing.


End file.
